You ever look back and realize you’ve been living the same goddamn life since you were a teenager? Like, for real, you’re in your late sixties, and it hits you that you’re still the one making sure everyone gets fed, still the one putting out fires, still the one who just *knows* what needs doing even when everyone else is off doing… whatever it is they do. And you think about those kids, those poor bastards in high school, juggling sports and their homework and then they get home and the older ones are gone, just GONE, off doing their own thing, whatever that is, and suddenly it’s *your* job to figure out dinner for the little ones, and you do it, every damn night, and you wonder if they ever get to just *be* a kid. And you remember doing that, remember standing over a stove, trying to remember what was in the fridge and how to make it edible, and you were exhausted, and you just wanted to collapse, but you couldn't, because someone had to feed the babies. And then you get older, and you think things will change, you think you'll finally get a break, but no, you're just swapping one set of mouths for another, one set of problems for another, and it just never stops, does it? It’s never enough. You give and you give and you give and you expect nothing in return, because that’s just what you DO, that’s just who you ARE, and you wouldn't have it any other way, probably. But then you catch yourself muttering under your breath, a little "for fuck's sake" when someone asks for something else, something simple, something you know you’ll do, but it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it? It’s the sheer, relentless, unending *ness* of it all. And then you feel guilty for even thinking it, because who else is going to do it? Nobody. That’s who. And you know what the worst part is? You’d do it all again. Every single goddamn meal, every scraped knee, every late night worry. You’d do it. And you’d probably complain about it the whole time, because that’s your right, isn't it? To grouse and grumble and still show up. But sometimes, sometimes you just want to walk away, just for a day, just for an hour, and let someone else be the one to figure out what’s for dinner. Just once. Just to see what would happen. And you know what would happen? Nothing. Probably. Or everything would fall apart. And either way, you’d probably feel even worse. So you just keep on keeping on, because that’s what you do, you old fool, you. You just keep going. And you keep making dinner. Every. Single. Time.